


in times of crisis

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you give the man who doesn't seem to want anything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	in times of crisis

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Frank O'Hara, "To the Film Industry in Crisis": "In times of crisis we must all decide again and again whom we love."
> 
> Slightly late birthday fic for Sam.

Sometimes Dean panics and does stupid things. Like sell his soul for his brother. Or this.

“Happy Birthday,” he says.

“You got me a lawn ornament,” says Sam.

Dean would like to contradict that, because buying Sam a lawn ornament for his birthday would obviously be ridiculous. But the evidence is incontrovertible.

“I got you an _awesome_ lawn ornament,” he corrects. “Bitch.”

Three weighty segments of sandstone, the alligator’s snout and the scaled curve of its back and the tip of its tail. So it’s like the rest of it is submerged in the lawn. Awesome. They do little ceramic Loch Ness monsters like that, too. Dean’s seen them a few times. He always thought they were cool.

Maybe he should have gotten Sam one of those. Except what would they do with it, set it up on the dashboard? First time Dean stepped on the gas or hit the brakes it would slip off and shatter. The lawn ornament is bulky, but at least it’s not fragile.

“Huh,” says Sam. He hefts the head section with a grunt of effort, examines it like it’s an artifact for a case. He makes an approving noise at the rows of uneven teeth. They must be zoologically authentic. He puts it down again and turns to Dean.

“You don’t have to say thank you,” Dean says. “Just because I went out and spent my hard-stolen money getting you the desire of your heart.” 

And Dean waits for Sam’s answer. His hands are sweating. He’s nervous. Terrified, even. The state of mind where he panics and does stupid things. Sells his soul. Buys Sam sandstone alligators. 

 

Dean remembers the first time he’d held out a toy to Sammy and Sammy had taken it. A rattle, red and yellow plastic with a smiling sun face. Sammy’s eyes had tracked it when Dean rattled it at him and Sammy had reached out and Dean had handed it through the bars of the crib. Dean can still feel the tug, Sammy’s tiny, dimpled fist pulling with surprising force.

Over the years since that rattle Sam has wanted some terrible things. The truth. Stanford. Normal. Dean. Lilith’s head on a platter. Ruby’s blood. To say _Yes_ , to jump into the Cage, fixing what he broke. Terrible things. Finding out what Sam wants usually means Dean getting his soul crushed. 

But it’s nothing, Dean knows now, it’s nothing to the soul-sucking vertigo of realizing that Sam has stopped wanting. Like waking up to find gravity’s not working, that all the vital orbits have been dispersed.

 

Half the time they don’t do birthdays, anyway. Especially Sam’s. Usually around this time of year one of them dies. Even last year, when nobody had flatlined or even been in a coma, they’d been a little busy killing Dick Roman. Sam’s birthday celebration had been the final, hissing flames flaring blue with alcohol as Bobby’s flask burned.

Dean had wanted a drink. He’d wanted to go where Bobby had gone. Emphasis on gone.

Sam had got up the next morning and found them a hunt. They’d finished it and Sam had found another. Some time round October they’d been sitting on the car by Lake Michigan, eating lukewarm burgers. 

Dean had wanted a swig of whisky. Just to give his weak, muddy coffee a bite. He’d wanted to drive through Battle Creek on their way east, see if he could catch a glimpse of Ben coming home from school. He’d wanted Sam to turn suddenly, the way he sometimes used to, eyes gone dark and hot, to pin Dean to the warm metal of the hood, sling a leg over his thigh and press down, letting Dean feel the hot, insistent line of his dick. 

He’d wanted to just stay there a while, listening to the unemphatic slosh of waves and feeling the mild fall sun on his face.

“You ever want to stop?” he’d asked Sam.

Sam had looked at him blankly.

“Hunting,” Dean had clarified. “You ever want to get out?”

He’d waited for Sam’s eyes to spark, to catch at the chance, reject it, didn’t really matter.

Sam’s forehead had wrinkled with calculation and concern.

“I . . .” he’d started, then changed direction. “You want to do something else? I guess, I mean, I guess we could figure something out. If you want.”

Dean had waited, but that was it. Sam had gone on staring at him, puzzled and neutral. 

“Nah,” said Dean. “I’m good if you are. I was just checking.” 

He’d crumpled his burger wrapper, thrown it in a neat arc into the garbage can, and stood up. Basilisk in Georgia. Sam had followed him round the car.

 

So they’d made it to May 1st. Normally if he’d thought of it Dean would’ve grabbed some Hostess cupcakes and a _Busty Asian Beauties_ from the gas station, handed them to Sam the next day in their plastic bag. And Sam would be disgusted, warmly annoyed, the precision with which Dean could get him the wrong thing, he’d get it. Probably he’d tackle Dean to the bed and it would end in some pretty awesome sex. But this year Sam doesn’t want anything. 

Dean had left Sam at the library and driven to one of those huge, boxy malls, wandered from store to store like a ghost haunting the wrong place. When he’d found himself staring at a shelf of sweaters – Sam doesn’t even wear sweaters, for chrissake, and anyway, it’s almost summer – with his heart racing, he’d finally admitted it. Fear.

They’d passed the lawn ornaments place on the way into town. Dean’s eye had been caught by the giant silver pig. Awesome. But the alligator is about a hundred times more awesome. 

Not that it matters. It might as well be an Akkadian grammar or a cake-decorating kit or a tribble. So long as he can get Sammy to reach through the bars and take it. 

“You got me a lawn ornament,” Sam says again. “A sectional alligator lawn ornament.”

“Yep,” says Dean. “Happy Birthday.”

Sam takes a step closer. Dean holds his breath. He wants a drink. He wants Sam to bend him over the hood of the car. He wants to get in the driver’s seat, now, and take off in a cloud of dust. That way if Sam’s not coming back this time he’d never know.

Sam’s hands come up and grip Dean’s t-shirt. Tentative, not like it used to be. But Dean can’t remember, he can’t remember the last time Sam had reached out to touch him. The last time Sam had reached for something.

For a moment they hang in the balance. Sam looks from the alligator (which is, by the way, awesome) to Dean’s face. His hands curl, tugging Dean in. He smells of sweat and coffee. Dean is caught in the gravitational pull of Sam’s flesh, the heat of Sam’s gaze. Him and Sam. Interlocking orbits. Sam’s cock stirs against him.

“You got me a fucking lawn ornament,” Sam says.

“And I hope you’re grateful,” says Dean. 

Sam’s lips brush his, more a graze of breath than a touch, but the air slams out of Dean’s lungs like Sam shoved him against a wall and pushed his tongue down his throat. Lust, hope, triumph hammer achingly in Dean’s groin. Sam flattens his hands against Dean’s chest, drags them over his nipples, skims them down Dean’s sides to his hips. Dean crowds obligingly closer, feeling the quick rise of Sam’s chest, the hard press of his cock. Not like he doesn’t want to be obliging just now. Sam noses along his jaw.

“I think I’ll hold out for a lawn,” he says in Dean’s ear. Then his lips move back to Dean’s.

Lawns usually come attached to a house of some sort. Dean can do that. He’ll get on it as soon as Sam’s done kissing him.


End file.
